


michael afton but he's dying

by tunacotton



Category: FNAF, Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: 5naf, Other, Sister Location, fnaf - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 20:41:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19180999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tunacotton/pseuds/tunacotton
Summary: this is super old haha hope y'all enjoy michael complaining for like 2 pages.





	michael afton but he's dying

**Author's Note:**

> i actually don't even know why I'm here my fnaf phase ended months ago

Hands made of sickly discoloured skin reached out in front of him. He could feel maggots playing under his flesh, and sunken eyes that would be lost in the darkness of his sockets if not for the horribly bright pupils. There was a faint hum of spitting water from above and behind. It made everything hurt. His spine ached, his abdomen screamed, his knuckles cracked- and yet he couldn’t bring himself to step out of the basin. 

But worst of all, he could feel the loneliness and hate spiral along what was left of his insides with the ebb and flow of the water, dripping and dripping and surging and crushing and hurting and tearing.

Everyday, routine kept him sane.

Through hot steam he felt his abdomen, gaping and cold and sharp. It invited hands that searched for anything soft and malleable to hold onto, to feel, to anchor- but he couldn’t bear to look. He was sick of being in a haze all day, he was sick of the horrible numbness, he was sick of coughing fits that sent him crashing to the ground; clutching his body with a tightness in his chest when his arms felt only cool metal where warmth and blood should’ve been-

Every night, routine kept him safe. 

Shampoo bubbled out into his palm, sweet and bright and delicious. It brought with it memories clouded with age, ones that pictured a man who was like the soap- sweet, bright, nostalgic. He was so lovely and familiar- yet he couldn’t put his finger on what it was about the man that made him swell with uneasiness and displeasure. 

He ignored it. Many things made him feel that way. 

Bright pink suds formed in his hair as he massaged the soap into what was left of his scalp. They trailed down his face and neck and legs until spiraling into the drain. Then went the water, then the dirt and then the oil along with all sorts of things that had accumulated throughout the day. 

But then came the things that weren’t meant for the drain, the things that not even Draino nor acid nor fire could rid it of because they clogged it so badly. The bits of flesh and necrotic bone that the water swallowed whole. The flakes of sundried muscle that curled up on itself, shrinking away because not even his own body could bear his toxicity and greed. The chunks of meat that slid away from his radius with a dull thud into the basin; like hunks of tender, well cooked chicken peeling off the bone. 

Every minute, routine kept him distracted.

He let the water run and run and run over his face, in between the creases of his eyes- traveling paths that tears flowed ages ago- down the exposed bridge of his nasal bone, and finally pooling at his chin where it made its final stop before the tub.

He shut off the faucet with a jerk of his wrist and patiently watched the water swirl completely into the grate, noting that tonight it took longer than normal to drain. As for the pieces still left in the shower, he had no more energy. He saw no sense in cleaning up tonight.

He wrapped a freshly pressed towel around his tangle of a waist, stopping himself from using it to dry his face and neck. Recently it seemed the fibers were much too coarse for his eyes and throat; he’d been a little too aggressive the other day and in one wipe managed to peel the cartilage bit of his nose from the bone. It was beyond salvaging even when it was on his face- had just been an eyesore, really. 

He spent a whole lot of time waiting for things to leave.

Tracking his weight every other day was also a necessary part of his routine, because self care is of utmost importance. A candle always burning, carpets always vacuumed and counters always scrubbed. Lately, though, he’s found tasks like that slipping his mind; a lot of things seemed to do that. 

The scale was probably cold, but he wouldn’t know. The number was three pounds less than before he had gotten in the shower, and that was good. Lots of people spent hours trying to lose that much and he’d just effortlessly shed it in 6 minutes. 

Think of the possibilities for tomorrow.

He took care in closing the shower curtain, putting the towel up so it hung flat and prim, and shutting off the lights to the washroom. He shuffled to his room across the hall in a well loved pair of 8 year old red-and-black flannel pajama bottoms. They used to cling tight to his waist, but for the first time in years he’d had to pull the drawstring almost fully cinched because otherwise they hung low, catching the bone of his pelvis and draping like coats in a closet. 

Entering his room, he didn’t even bother turning on the lamp nearest to the door, as in the past couple weeks he had become too tired to do his usual reading before bed. Not that it bothered him, though; a strong circadian rhythm was a sign of good health.

Pulling back the grey and black comforter, he settled into the sheets- cold and clean, just how he liked it. Violin lulled him to sleep, marking the end of another day well structured and well spent. 

But routine had poisoned him.

And in the coming days, it would kill him.


End file.
